“I don’t think so,” she said.
“That’s too bad — better get it,” Mason told her. “Then get in touch with her and put her under cover. Get her where the police can’t find her.”
“Shall I let her know what I’m doing, Chief?” Della Street asked, her voice losing its tone of informal banter and becoming crisply businesslike.
“Not unless you absolutely have to, Della. Make any kind of a stall. Tell her I’ve asked you to come and get her and keep her available for important developments. Or, just try the old personality stuff. Tell her you understand she’s a stranger in the city and how would she like to go out to dinner. In short, tell her anything. But put her where the police can’t find her, — and don’t let her know that’s what you’re doing.”
“Okay, Chief, where will I reach you?”
“Keep in touch with the Drake Detective Agency,” Mason said. “Leave word with whoever’s in charge of the office. Tell them Drake or I may telephone later for the information, and not to let it out to anyone else. Of course, if you can’t locate her, you’ll just have to...”
“Leave it to me, Chief,” Della Street said competently, “I’ll locate her. What’s happened?”
“I don’t know yet,” Mason said. “I’m on my way to find out. Remember, keep in touch with Drake’s office.”
“Okay, Chief,” she said, “I’m starting right now,” and hung up the telephone.
Back in the automobile, Mason slid in behind the steering wheel and jerked the car into motion. Paul Drake, sliding half around in the seat so that his back was propped across the corner formed by the door and the seat cushion, said, “So what?”